Bad Client (Nick Teffinger Thriller)

by Jagger, R. J.

PAIGE TOOK I-25 NORTH as the worn-out wiper blades of her older-than-dirt Ford Mustang did a pathetic job of keeping up with the storm. The high-speed setting broke more than five years ago. The bald tires threatened to hydroplane at any second. Other drivers wove around her and she knew they were giving her the finger.

  Right now she didn’t care.

  Darkness approached.

  Streetlights would kick on soon.

  The wetness of her clothes worked its way into her bones, so much so that she turned on the heater, which amazingly still worked. She cut east when she got to I-70, exited at Vasquez and then wove her way into an industrial area north of the city.

  She’d never been in this particular section of the world before.

  It was cold and hard and creepy.

  She drove deeper and deeper into a darkening terrain. The buildings became fewer. More and more of them were boarded up and surrounded by chain-link fences. The asphalt turned to gravel.

  One eye in the rearview mirror told her no one followed.

  Still, the guy might be waiting for her. Don’t forget that. This whole thing could be a setup, in which case she would go down as one of the dumbest people on the face of the earth. The Taurus .357Mag gave her some comfort but not near as much as she thought it would.

  She had no idea if she could actually point it at a human being.

  Finally, after what seemed like a long time, she saw the designated landmark—a water tower that carved an eerie silhouette against a swirling black sky.

  She pulled up to the gate of a chain-link fence and killed the engine, just like she’d been told.

  Lightning arced across the sky.

  That’s when she saw the boxcar—a solitary shape sitting in a field by itself, to the left of an abandoned building.

  She picked up the gun and held it in her hands.

  Then she studied the surroundings as the storm beat down on the roof.

  No one was around.

  She double-checked the weapon to be sure the safety was off, then kept it in her right hand and got out of the car. The storm immediately pounded her and fingered its way into her clothes.

  THE CHAIN-LINK FENCE RAN PARALLEL to the road. About fifty steps down she found an opening, right where the man said it would be. She bent down, twisted through and walked across a squishy field towards the boxcar.

  She kept a good lookout.

  It was still light enough that she’d be able to see anyone coming. But no one did and she concentrated more and more on the boxcar.

  The man could be hiding inside, hidden under a blanket or a pile of hay, or on the roof waiting to drop down.

  The thought made her tighten her finger on the trigger.

  Wait.

  That was weird.

  The man said the door would be closed.

  It was open, not all the way, but enough for someone to get in or out.

  She approached, one step at a time, walking slower now.

  Suddenly a woman’s voice came from inside, sobbing and desperate.

  “No! Please stop!”

  Paige climbed a rusty ladder at the side of the door, took a deep breath, and stepped into the black opening.

  THERE SHE FOUND A HEAVYSET MAN thrusting wildly between a woman’s legs. He still wore a shirt but had his pants all the way off. The fat of his body rippled each time he struck her with his pelvis. The stench of urine and body odor filled the air.

  The woman was totally naked.

  A steel collar wrapped around her neck, chained to something in the corner. Her arms were tied behind her back. Suddenly she spotted Paige and shouted, “Help me! Please help me!”

  The man started to get up on one elbow and turn, but before he could get all the way around Paige closed the gap and hit him as hard as she could with the gun on the side of his head.

  He muttered something, then made a strange sound and fell limp on top of the woman.

  “Get him off me!”

  Paige grabbed the man’s shirt and dragged him off.

  The woman immediately scrambled into the corner.

  “It’s okay,” Paige said.

  The woman finally calmed down enough to let Paige put the key into the padlock. It actually fit and the collar came off. Then Paige untied her hands.

  The man still hadn’t moved or made a sound.

  As soon as the woman was free she picked up Paige’s gun, stuck the barrel in the man’s face and pulled the trigger.

  Chapter Three

  Day Two—May 6

  Tuesday Morning

  ______________

  THE BODY GOT CALLED IN by an anonymous man who sounded like a drifter. At the scene, Nick Teffinger—the 34-year-old head of Denver’s homicide unit—raked his thick brown hair back with his fingers and hardly paid any attention to the dead man’s fat ass or the mangled mess of flesh that had once been a face. He was a lot more interested in the collar, the collar attached to the chain, the collar that no longer held anyone captive.

  It was a quarter-inch thick and an inch wide; black; hinged on one side where it could be opened, with a clasp on the other side to accept a padlock.

  Detective Sydney Heatherwood—the newest member of the team and the only female African American detective—held a Kleenex over her nose to fend off the urine and guts as she squatted down to take a look at the padlock.

  “This lock has the key in it,” she said.

  Teffinger already knew that and said, “Do you see any fingerprints on it?”

  She laughed.

  “Two or three.”

  “Can you tell whose they are?”

  “No. They’re not any of the ones I have memorized.”

  “Too bad,” he said. “I was hoping we had this all wrapped up so I could get back to doing what I do best.”

  “Which is?”

  “Drinking coffee. I thought you knew that by now.”

  OUTSIDE, THE CRIME UNIT STILL HADN’T SHOWN UP, so they walked across the field to Teffinger’s truck to wait. He pulled out a thermos of coffee, filled two disposable cups, handed one to Sydney and then took a long noisy slurp.

  Ah, good stuff.

  Still pretty hot.

  Last night’s storm had given way to a cloudless blue sky. Springtime bugs were everywhere and sparrows darted in zigzag patterns to gobble them up.

  “So what’s your theory?” Sydney asked.

  He shrugged. “I’d rather be a bird than a bug. That’s my theory.”

  She rolled her eyes. “I’ll remember that if I ever get the power to change you,” she said. “Which I’ve been praying for, by the way.”

  He chuckled and then got serious. “The dead guy’s a drifter. He probably stumbled on the boxcar last night and ducked in to get out of the storm. Judging by the fact he had his pants off, I’m guessing a woman was there, in the collar, when he entered.”

  “Can you imagine?” Sydney said. “Crawling into a boxcar out in the middle of nowhere and finding a woman chained up inside?”

  Teffinger grunted.

  “It would be like winning the drifter’s lottery,” he said. “Whoever put the woman there in the first place must have come back when the drifter was having his fun. He didn’t take kindly to some stranger humping his property and rearranged his face with a bullet. Then he took the woman somewhere else.”

  “Meaning she’s still alive,” Sydney nodded.

  “At least as of that time.” Teffinger scratched his head. “What I don’t understand is why he didn’t take all the stuff—the collar and chain and padlock. It’s evidence. Why didn’t he take it? I would have.”

  Sydney made a face.

  “I don’t know, but I do know that I’m not getting paid enough for all that stench.”

  Teffinger chuckled.

  “Toughen up,” he said. “I own cologne worse than that.”

  “Yeah, I know. I’ve been meaning to talk to you about that.”

  Chapter Four

  Day Two—May 6

 
Tuesday Morning

  ______________

  AARON TRANE—TARZAN—OWNED a four-story building next to the BNSF switchyard on the west edge of the city. Back in its heyday it housed a furniture manufacturing company. Now it only housed him. He lived on the top floor in a 6,000 square foot space that he called the loft. The space was just that, space, meaning one large rectangular room with oak plank floors and fourteen foot ceilings. There was only one enclosed area, for the darkroom.

  Other than that there were no walls.

  Not a one.

  Not for the bedroom, or the bathroom, or even the area where the models changed. Of course, he kept a few partitions on rollers around for the faint of heart—one by the toilet and one where the models dressed.

  At six-three, 235 pounds, the space fit his frame just fine.

  Anything smaller would be a cage.

  The west windows looked down on the tops of boxcars and engines and track. The clanging and squeaking of the switching operations were his wind chimes.

  He pushed his naked body off the mattress at the usual time, about 11:00 a.m., got the coffee machine going and jumped in the shower, soaking the thick blond mane of hair that hung halfway down his back, a good twelve to eighteen inches past his shoulders. He lathered his face with soap and shaved under the spray. Then did the same with his balls and dick, getting rid of every hair, so Del Rae wouldn’t be fighting with distractions when she went down to visit.

  He toweled off in front of the mirror.

  Tarzan stared back.

  All muscle.

  Ripped.

  Nothing but rugged jungle looks.

  WITH A CUP OF COFFEE IN HAND, he checked the answering machine and found twelve messages. One turned out to be from Dexter Vaughn, the VP of Three Streets, which was one of the top ten ad agencies, headquartered in New York. He dialed Dexter’s direct number and got him just as he came back from lunch.

  “What’s this message you left about a new project? How am I supposed to spend my life getting laid if you keep cluttering it up with work?” Aaron asked.

  Dexter laughed.

  “Here’s the deal,” he said. “And let me tell you right off the bat, this is huge. The client’s Sensory Perceptions. In four months they’re going to roll out a cologne called Snare, the target market being males between twenty and thirty. They want a seriously edgy image for the product. Whoever wears it is a dangerous bad-boy, that kind of thing. And who does edgy better than you?”

  Aaron chuckled.

  “No one.”

  “Exactly,” Dexter said. “No one. I need you to work up some outrageous concepts for them to look at. The ones they finally choose are going to be everywhere, as in across the nation, on billboards, buses, magazines, the whole bit. They’re going to throw seriously stupid money at it.”

  “So exactly how much of an edge are they looking for?”

  “An edge that’s fallen over the edge,” Dexter said. “The idea is that whoever wears this stuff attracts the most beautiful and dangerous women on the planet. Picture one guy surrounded by five barely-dressed women in heat.”

  Aaron winced.

  “Trite,” he said. “How soon do they need it?”

  “Two weeks, two and a half max.”

  Fine.

  Doable.

  “Later today I’m going to wire you thirty grand in seed money,” Dexter said. “Just be sure to give me something fresh, something no one’s even thought of before, much less seen.”

  “I already have some ideas,” Aaron said.

  AFTER HE HUNG UP, AARON SAT DOWN AT THE DRUMS, put “Sweet Child of Mine” on repeat mode, cranked up the volume and played along. A half hour later he had several pretty good ideas for photo shoots.

  Then he worked the phone to get things in motion.

  Models.

  Costumes.

  Setup.

  Lighting.

  An hour later Del Rae Paris called. He pulled up a mental picture of exotic green eyes and a sensuous curvy body, a picture so vivid that his cock tingled.

  She had news, very interesting news.

  “He actually brought up the idea last night,” she said. “All on his own.”

  She didn’t need to define he—“he” was Robert Sharapova, Esq., the target.

  “So you actually think he’ll do it?” Aaron asked.

  “Yeah, I really do,” she said. “About time, too. I’m sick to death of screwing the guy. I’m coming over tonight so be warned.”

  He smiled.

  “Can’t wait.”

  “Have some coke,” she added.

  “Done.”

  “I love to screw on coke.”

  “Yes you do.”

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  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

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  Email: rjjagger@yahoo.com